Today I had my weekly visit with Diane, my therapist of six years. Wow. Long term Sacagawea. How about that, I actually CAN commit to a woman long term. Joke.
I was sharing I’ve “kind of been dating”, which includes having the lass bunking over for the night. And I mentioned Alisa, who turned out not quite being drinking age yet last weekend. She is now.
Diane warned me about watching out for the ages of the girls I’m hooking up with. Statutory rape, emotional maturity, body parts defying gravity of their own accord, etc. She is not pleased with Alisa having been 20. Doesn’t matter. She was cheating on her boyfriend when he was out of town. Stand up girl.
I told Diane I feel hollow with these women, and it’s like hunting for a Clare surrogate, more for the companionship and less for the sex. I’ve had lots of sex already.
Companionship, so much more enriching, as if holding hands in the car is like making love.
Back off. You can have my Man Card when you pry it from my cold, dead hands. One of which will be holding the hand of some lucky lass. How gross for her.
Back to hollow. Not empty. Hollow. Diane knows I choose my words specifically. Thin shell with a huge void enclosed. Hollow.
I feel worse afterwards. Always.
Diane asked why I did it if I felt worse.
The words came out naturally.
Because I haven’t given up hope of feeling something again just yet.
And that’s okay.
The recovery journey continues. With continued hope.